


Recall

by Elvaron



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2012-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-08 10:50:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvaron/pseuds/Elvaron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old dogs can learn new tricks. Or relearn old ones. Simon and Alys revisit old lessons, and learn something new in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recall

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Beginner's Lessons](https://archiveofourown.org/works/360623) by [Philomytha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philomytha/pseuds/Philomytha). 



> Many, many thanks to Philomytha for allowing me to write this as a companion fic to _Beginner's Lessons_.

It was supposed to be spring, but massive snowstorms seemed to be in fashion in Vorbarr Sultana. 

In the warmth of her apartment, Alys balanced a teacup on her knees and watched the snow falling outside, the tiny flakes caught up in occasional eddies of wind that sent them spiralling off in confused directions. 

She felt as directionless and adrift as they looked. 

Spring was traditionally a time for spring parties, a lead up to the madness of mid-summer. Spring was when Vorbarr Sultana emerged from the sleepy quiet it always fell into after Winterfair, a time to dust off the parade red-and-blues and exchange dull, heavy coats for lighter, colourful dresses. Spring had always been a busy time for her, a season of renewed energy and purpose.

This time a year ago, she had been snowed under by a different kind of snow, caught up in the utter chaos that had been the preparation for the royal wedding. The mere thought of it was still enough to make her shudder. No more, she had vowed after that – she was going to _retire_ , and someone else was welcome to all of it. Besides, the royal wedding had been, in many ways, her _magnum opus_ ; what else could possibly top that? What else could even be allowed to?

Her apartment was utterly silent, the falling snow outside smothering even the customary sounds of traffic. No one wanted to be out in weather like this – snow blowing horizontally, Aral would say – and no one out meant no spring parties, meant no work for her. Oh, there were still functions, little things held indoors, but Laisa had taken over those, and she had Ekaterin beside her.

At first, the free time had seemed an extravagant luxury. For the first time in … decades, probably, she had time to curl up on the couch with a book, time to catch up with friends, time to spend with Simon, happy moments that weren’t plagued with the necessity of keeping one eye on the clock. Long drives without a destination had replaced stolen moments between meetings, quiet walks in the park taking the place of hurried goodbyes. But as winter stretched on, Simon's mood had taken a turn for the worse, cold and miserable like the weather, and Alys felt like hers had been sucked down alongside. 

Simon’s moodiness wasn’t the result of any unhappiness with her. Alys was reasonably sure of that, even as some irrational part of her feared the worst. His eyes still lit when he saw her, and warmth still flooded his smiles the moment he realised she was there. It was social events that he had started withdrawing from, retreating into his old habit of fading into the background, becoming once again the silent observer leaning against the wall. 

_Join in,_ Alys had urged him, _You're not on duty any more._ But Simon would shake his head, citing fatigue, and Alys could read the weariness in the lines that creased his brow, something deeper than mere dislike for mingling. That fatigue was the reason she was sitting in her apartment alone tonight, staring out of the window. The function earlier had been small enough, as these things went – several ImpSec officers were being honoured with various medals and commendations, and General Allegre had thought to invite Simon as guest of honour. He'd handled it rather well, all things considered, even if he'd stumbled midway through the short speech and had to refer back to his notes. He'd managed to keep track of all the officers and the different decorations, without prompting, something that Alys thought should have been a small triumph for him. Yet, about an hour into the festivities that had followed, he'd begged off and escaped early. 

Unwilling to let it go, Alys had given him a lift back to his apartment in her ground car. Simon had been silent the entire ride, staring blankly – she would even say morosely, if that didn't seem like such an inappropriate word for him - at the windows. Once back at his apartment, he'd regained some of the energy that the ceremony seemed to have sapped from him, and had invited her in, as he always did, clearly more enthusiastic about spending the evening with her instead of in the company of familiar strangers. But Alys' own mood had taken a turn for the worse by then. She'd declined, citing her own weariness as an excuse. And so she'd fled instead, back to the solitude of her own apartment, where she had proceeded to wasting the evening by brooding alone.

Alys knew exactly what it was that troubled Simon. She just wasn't sure how to fix it. 

The problem wasn't that Simon didn't remember. The problem was that he didn't trust himself to. Having discovered the usefulness of artificial memory aids, he'd begun relying on them excessively, until he reached a point where he felt utterly lost without them. The chip in his head was now the chip in the audiofiler in his hand, except that the amount of information on the audiofiler was woefully incomplete compared to thirty years of eidetic memory that he had once held at his beck and call. That lack of data visibly ate at him. 

And how could he ever learn to trust himself, when everyone persisted in treating him like he was damaged? It was evident that he no longer _remembered_ what it was like to have a fallible human memory, and most of Vorbarr Sultana continued to treat his perfectly normal lapses in memory as fatal flaws, not even bothering to hide the pity or scorn in their eyes when they spoke to him. Their conclusions on his mental state were based purely on the insubstantial mists of rumour – if they bothered to look further, they would have found that he was nowhere as incapacitated as the rumours made him out to be. But they never would. And such was the uncaring nature of the Vorish social scene that, without his rank to hold him up, Simon Illyan wasn't important enough to a lot of the more snobbish Vor to even warrant the effort of treating him as anything more than an severely crippled veteran on a medical discharge. 

So it was only natural, Alys thought, that despite her best efforts, Simon continued to treat every stumble, every mistake, as a product of his damaged mind rather than the result of being simply human, continued to push himself towards a perfection that no human could achieve. 

She’d forgotten about the tea, and it had gone stone cold. Everything was cold, she thought, from the haughty stares of the High Vor to the infernal weather. Suddenly annoyed, she stood in a sweep of skirts, storming over to the kitchen to toss the offending tea down the sink. She poured herself a fresh cup and made her way back towards the sitting room, pausing by the window again as she looked out. Unthinkingly, she wrapped her hands around the porcelain of the teacup, imagining it to be one of the sturdy mugs in Simon's apartment, of a mode that would never be found in her own kitchen. As the warmth seeped into her fingers, her thoughts turned to sunny beaches far from the capital, and the beginnings of an idea took shape in her head. 

*

"Pack your bags," Alys said, sweeping past Simon as she strode into his apartment. 

Simon's expression turned from surprised into faintly bemused. "Milady," he said, the way he always did when she slid into what he called full-on-Vor-dragon mode. It was, by now, practically a term of endearment.

"That was an order," she said, enjoying the way his eyebrows crept up towards his hairline. 

"Of course," Simon said good-naturedly. "But could I at least inquire as to the destination?"

"Pack for warmer weather," Alys said, which didn't say much, considering that the snowfall wasn't just horizontal today; it felt like snow was falling _upwards_. "As to the rest – just consider yourself kidnapped."

*

The coast was flooded with glorious warmth and golden sunshine, and the breath that Alys drew as she stepped off the lightflyer smelt like spring - _proper_ spring, mild and flower scented, with just the slightest hint of the rain.

"This would probably count as the first time someone's succeeded in kidnapping me," Simon said thoughtfully from beside her, a lightness to his voice that she hadn’t heard in a while. It was as though it was easier to breathe here, away from the stifling snow and the even more stifling politics. 

Alys had lived and breathed politics for years. It didn’t mean she had to like them. 

"This is the difference between professionals and amateurs," Alys sniffed, pausing to adjust the lapels of Simon's light jacket. "The most successful kidnappings involve getting the target to follow you of his own volition."

Simon chuckled. His hand strayed towards the audiofiler on his belt, hovering unconsciously over it - not unlike the times she'd seen him reach unthinkingly for his stunner when danger reared its ugly head. It wasn't the first time she'd seen this particular nervous gesture, but it was the first time she'd seen it when they were alone, in the absence of any real threat, and the sight of it made her want to sigh. She reached forward instead, grasping his hand and pulling him towards the waiting ground car. 

"This place hasn't changed a bit, since the last time we were here," she said. She spared a sidelong glance at him as she said it - the subject of memories was always a touchy one with Simon. Even if she had special dispensation to say anything she wanted, the last thing she wanted to do was to call his memory into question. 

"Last year, after Gregor's wedding. I remember," Simon said quietly, looking around and squinting faintly at buildings in the horizon. His fingers twitched against hers, as though he was restraining himself from reaching for the audiofiler, to try and call up images that weren't stored there. He smiled, and the gesture eased some of the lines that had settled around his eyes lately. "This is a brilliant idea."

"Drinks by the beach, soaking up the sun, lazing the day away..." Alys said, feeling like a fisherman laying out the line, waiting for her prey to take the bait...

"...better than freezing indoors with the heating turned up to maximum. I can hardly wait."

Snagged. "Well," she replied, switching abruptly to her most businesslike tones. "You're going to have to wait a little longer. We're going riding first."

Simon's expression promptly turned vaguely horrified. " _Riding_?" he said.

*

They hadn't visited the stable the first time they had been here, not least because Simon didn't _like_ riding. He didn't seem any better disposed to it this time, judging from the troubled looks that he was giving her.

"…I don't think this is a good idea," he murmured. "It's been years since I last rode, and unless you're not planning on anything more exciting than a steady walk..."

"Simon," she said patiently. "What's the fun in that?"

A lesser man might have quailed. As it was, Simon looked at her and swallowed a sigh. "Alys, we're really not as young as we used to be. Riding is a risky business, even for seasoned riders..."

It was, as objections went, unusually vehement for Simon. 

"It'll be fine, Simon. We'll take it slow, and I'll help you along."

"The last time you helped me along, you led me across a jump and I fell right off," Simon said dryly.

It wasn't the last time they'd gone riding, but Alys was delighted that he remembered that particular episode anyway. "No jumps this time," she promised. "We'll start in the arena, just to get used to it again. Why don't you walk your horse over to the mounting block and hop on? I'll join as you as soon as I'm ready here."

Something flickered over Simon's face, too fast for Alys to catch. His hand made an aborted move towards his belt, but they'd left his audiofiler in the hotel.

*

"Alright," Alys said, nudging her horse towards the center of the arena, where she could keep an eye on Simon. "Why don't you bring Merrill up to a trot?" They were the only ones present, and Simon didn't need to know that she'd reserved the entire place for the afternoon to ensure it. She'd suspected that it would be bad enough without a curious audience hovering around and offering pointers. Simon knew how to ride. It wasn't riding lessons he needed. 

Simon tightened his grip on Merrill's reins, his eyes firmly glued on the mare's head. He gave a half-hearted nudge, which spoke volumes about his confidence and enthusiasm about this venture, or lack thereof. In response, Merrill took three energetic steps in walk before falling back into a lazy amble.

Alys bit back the urge to call out advice. 

Simon took another breath and sat up straighter – _tensing his back up too much_ , Alys thought – and gave a sharper leg aid. Merrill ambled forward a few more steps then sprang into trot.

Simon tensed up immediately, gripping with his knees and bouncing. He made a determined effort to rise, then tipped forward, before falling back hard in the saddle, and getting bounced right out again. He shook his head in frustration, pulling back on the reins to bring the mare back to a walk. Merrill tossed her head up and slowed, as unhappy as her rider. 

Alys turned her own mare, walking a circle as Simon sorted himself out. He'd gone silent, the way he always did whenever he lapsed into one of those moments of self-testing. Alys read frustration in the lines of his shoulders, and wondered when the notoriously inscrutable Illyan had become an open book to her.

"Alright," he said, rotating a shoulder to ease out the tension, before pushing Merrill into trot again. The effort was a little more coordinated this round, and Alys thought for a moment that he might have gotten it, when the mare decided to slow back down to a walk. Simon kicked, lost his stirrup, and then lost his position, sitting down hard and muttering an oath under his breath. "Alys," he said, and she could practically hear the raw frustration in his voice. "This isn't working. I don't--"

"Remember?" Alys said pointedly. Deliberately. _Cruelly._ It hurt to say it, and the flash of pain in Simon's eyes made her feel as though she'd stabbed herself with her own Vorfemme knife. 

"I know what you'll say," Simon said, pointedly not looking at her. "It's the same as what _they_ all say - it's all muscle memory, and the muscles don't forget." He barked a laugh, self-deprecating. "But _they_ didn't have their brains blown out."

He'd never said it in such plain terms before, voice laden with such raw bitterness. In that moment, Alys felt the snaking chill of doubt, winding like a noose around her neck and choking the words in her throat. 

Simon, always attuned to the slightest hint of distress on her part, glanced over immediately, and the darkness on his face smoothed into concern. "I'm sorry," he said, and his voice was much gentler this time. "That was – unnecessary. I'll try harder."

Alys nudged her horse to bring her up alongside Simon's. She was riding astride this time – side saddles were a rarity nowadays, and this stable didn't have one. No matter; it didn't stop her from capturing Simon's hand in one of hers. "Maybe the key is to try less," she said, and Simon gave her a quizzical look. 

"Riding is one of those things," she explained, feeling the inadequacy of her words, and wishing that she could convey everything through the squeeze of her fingers around his. "Where sometimes the harder you try, the more you push yourself, the worse it gets. Occasionally, the best thing you can do is to – clear your mind, relax, and trust your horse." _And trust me. Trust yourself._

Simon's expression turned solemn, then thoughtful. "Trust, you say," he said. 

Alys said nothing, fighting against every urge to encourage, cajole, exhort. This was a step that he had to take on his own. She simply held his gaze with hers, willing him to _remember_ his confidence of old, his faith in his own abilities, which were so much more than an artificial, eidetic memory chip. 

Simon's eyes roved across her face, betraying the doubts and worry that were tearing him apart inside. It was a vulnerability that he would never show to anyone else, and she beheld then the measure of trust that he placed in her.

"If you cannot believe in yourself," she said, "Then believe in those of us who believe in you."

Simon's fingers tightened around her hand, squeezing for a moment before he bowed over it. Then without a word, he released her, and urged Merrill forward.

 

She saw the moment it all came together for him, as the bounce of the trot threw him up, and he forced himself to relax, tension melting out of his back and arms, and finally his legs, as he stopped clinging on for dear life. Merrill exhaled noisily, putting her head down and bringing her back up, her movements becoming smoother, and Simon's eyes went wide. 

"Alys," he said in wonderment, and she could have wept. 

"Alright," she said instead, “Pick up canter when you feel ready.” 

Merrill flicked her ears at that, cued by the words and the sudden tension in her rider’s body, and picked up canter on her own. Unprepared for the transition, Simon lurched, and looked to pull back on the reins. “That’s fine,” Alys called out, “Keep going!”

She saw a look of grim determination flash across Simon’s face as he curbed the urge to pull. _Keep going,_ Alys urged again, silently this time, and the word was almost a prayer. Her own fingers tightened on the reins between them and she watched the scene play out before her, feeling like she was watching an elaborately planned banquet playing out before her, watching months of planning boiling down to one servitor who had just slipped on a puddle, the precariously balanced plates he was carrying wobbling dangerously--

\--but somehow, the plates didn’t fall. Somehow, Simon rode through the initial confusion, found his balance, reorganised, … and re-engaged. 

It wasn't dressage at its finest. It wasn't even the best riding that she'd seen from him. But it was beautiful in a way that she could hardly find the words to describe, an analogy in motion of the long, winding and occasionally painful journey that they had taken to reach this point. Simon's balance wavered; Merrill fell out of canter; there were a few confused moments as Simon fought to stay in the saddle, then Merrill picked up canter again, and Alys saw the frown on Simon’s face clear into the tiniest of triumphant smiles. It was a dance between partners -- not so different, in many ways, from the dances in Vorbarr Sultana, the proper ones, waltzing through the ballroom in the Residence, and the darker dance of politics amongst the Vor. And Simon _knew_ how to dance, information stored in a memory that ran far deeper than the chip’s electronic circuits. 

 

The smile was still there when he halted Merrill in front of her and saluted. It lingered around the corners of his mouth and eyes, lending a sparkle to his gaze that she hadn't seen in far too long. 

"Do I pass, milady?" he asked, and Alys pretended to consider for a moment. 

"Acceptable," she said, then smiled. "And much more besides."

He inclined his head.

"Shall we bring the horses for a walk?" she asked. "No jumping, I promise."

"As you wish," he replied easily. It was strange, Alys thought, how he lapsed into a sort of formality whenever he was relaxed; but then again, so much of their journey together had been strange. 

They hacked along the bridle paths, across grass dotted with spring flowers, keeping their horses at a sedate walk. The silence between them was companionable and comfortable, Simon evidently still reveling in his achievement, and Alys cautiously hopeful about hers. The path opened out and ended on an outcrop overlooking the village and the bay, and there they paused, looking out over the glittering blue sea.

"I was wrong," Simon said, suddenly. Alys glanced over, and found him looking at her. "I should have trusted you," Simon continued, and his gaze was as intent as it had ever been, when he had been ImpSec Chief. "I didn’t, and for that, you have my apologies."

Alys shook her head. "No, Simon. I believe I was the only person – or thing – you actually trusted."

Simon rested a hand against Merrill's neck and ran a thumb over her mane, glancing down at her as she bent to steal a mouthful of grass. "You may be right. Again."

"I usually am," she said, a jab at humour in order to bring back that smile. She was rewarded by the slight uplifting of the corner of his mouth. 

"Thank you," he replied.

"It isn't just about riding," Alys said. "But you know that, don't you?"

In response, Simon simply slanted a smile at her. “I suppose I’ve had it coming. I should have known that it was getting obvious when Cordelia started suggesting that additional endorphins were useful in combating seasonal affective disorder.”

Typical Cordelia. Typical, wonderful Cordelia. Alys didn't know whether to be scandalised or amused. 

"Believe in those who believe in you," Simon said thoughtfully. "I am fortunate to have so many who do."

**

In retrospect, Alys knew she should have seen this coming. No one crossed the dread Chief of ImpSec (retired) and got away with it. She had thought herself an exception, or had at least expected Simon’s retribution to take some time. Or at least, that it wouldn’t take this particular... form. 

“No,” Alys said, putting every ounce of iron and steel that she could muster into that single word. 

Simon raised an eyebrow. “Would it help if I asked nicely?”

“No,” Alys replied. “Not in this case.”

“I’m afraid I must insist, milady,” Simon replied, then smiled. “It’s just a bathing suit.”

Alys sighed.

She _really_ should have seen it coming. There was a private pool attached to their villa, and Simon had been shooting thoughtful looks at it since day one. She’d woken once or twice in the mornings to find him missing, and had made her way down to the pool to find him doing laps, slicing through the water with easy grace. She’d watched from the edge, the tiles cold under her bare feet from the night air, and he’d called out an invitation, which she had declined each time. 

Evidently, he wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer again. 

She wasn’t sure where he’d gotten the bathing suit from, and rather suspected that he had packed it, which meant that this was probably a scheme that had been in motion for as long as she’d planned to get him back on a horse. She wouldn’t have put it past him. 

“I’m not certain it would even fit,” she said, eying the scanty piece of clothing dubiously.

“I am a spy, you know,” Simon replied. “Information gathering is one of my specialities.” He hefted the thoroughly _indecent_ piece of clothing. “Won’t you give it a try?”

“Puppy eyes do _not_ work on me, Simon,” Alys said stiffly. It wasn’t exactly the truth, but in this case, puppy eyes were not going to make her relent. There were _limits_.

“I could cook dinner,” Simon offered, and for a moment Alys had to shut her eyes against the temptation. Cooking was one of Simon’s rare hobbies - a surprising thing, considering that she still remembered the days when he couldn’t touch a microwave oven without blowing it up. But he’d shown a real talent for it once he’d been shown the light, showering the same attention to detail upon his culinary exploits as he did upon an ImpSec operation. That talent had suffered in the early days from a lack of time and energy, but it blossomed since his retirement, and become nothing short of formidable. 

“...No,” she managed, sheer willpower prevailing by the barest margin. It helped that the in-house chef that the resort hired could give Miles’ cook some stiff competition. Simon was good, but he hadn’t quite hit that level of divine. Not yet, anyway.

“It’s a lovely evening,” Simon pressed. “The water will still be warm, and we can watch the sunset...”

“I can watch the sunset equally well from the edge of the pool.” She frowned, wondering why he was so insistent. “And I would hardly want to scandalise your ImpSec watchers.”

The corner of Simon’s mouth quirked in a smile. “Trust me, they’ve seen far worse. But in any case, I’ve asked them to push back the perimeter to beyond visual range.” He moved forward, catching her arms, his gaze warm but intense. “What are you afraid of?”

“I am not afraid,” she said, automatically. Fear was an emotion she had learnt how to control an age ago; she had swallowed it down the day Padma had died, and had kept it hidden and buried under lock and key. 

“You are,” Simon replied, quietly and simply. “Alys. There is no one here but us.” 

It wasn’t fear, Alys told herself. It was a choice - except it wasn’t, was it? A choice implied options, except that there were no real options here, all her roads barred by social standards and expectations, unwritten rules of protocol. A Vor lady did not wear skimpy bathing suits, and that was the end of the matter. “I am Vor,” she said. 

Something flickered over Simon’s face. “And there are standards associated with being Vor?” he asked. A leading question, but Alys wasn’t sure where he was trying to go.

“It is a duty. And there is no such thing as being off duty.”

“There is duty,” Simon answered, “And then there is not knowing when to let go.”

“Soldiers may retire,” Alys said sharply. “One does not simply retire from being Vor.”

There was a sardonic tilt to Simon’s smile. “In ImpSec we say - we live to serve. But in order to serve, there must first be someone you can serve. Who do you serve, by clinging to rules that you have built up around yourself like a fortress, by holding on to protocol for the sake of holding on?”

Their earlier good mood had all but vanished. This, Alys felt, was building up to be their first real blow up. _How dare he_ , part of her thought, even as another part of her tried to shush it into silence. “It would be hypocrisy, to say one thing and do another when you believe no one is watching.”

“And it is foolishness, to believe that you are the only one who stands between Vor civilisation and its utter collapse.” When had Simon stepped so close? The only thing she could see was the burning intensity of his gaze. 

“Simon Illyan,” she said, a warning note in her voice. 

“You wear the elaborate dresses of the Vor like they are combat armour. You carry yourself like you stand on the battlefield every waking moment. Every conversation a sortie. Every word a weapon. You do all that you do not because you want to, but because you must.”

“You of all people should understand.” Anger was rising up in her despite her best efforts. There were many who belittled her role, but Simon had never been one of them. Or so she’d always thought. In turn, she’d never so much as whispered a breath about the divide that stood between them, the divide that turned on a single syllable and an entire social structure. 

“I of all people do understand,” Simon replied. “And I understand duty, and how it never sleeps, never rests, and how Barrayar’s peace and stability is bought at the cost of constant vigilance. I understand the importance of your duty, of the scrutiny that you have lived under all these years, the weight of expectation on your shoulders. And for many years, that was your burden to bear.” His voice was low, the words like rapid punches - no, like the inexorable battering of waves. “But you no longer have to bear it alone. Your reinforcements have arrived. The battlefield is secure. _You can lay down your arms._ ”

_I can’t,_ she wanted to say, but faces were floating up in her mind’s eye - Laisa and Ekaterin, and many others beside; the ones on whose shoulders the mantle now rested. Others to whom Barrayar looked to. She no longer had to be perfect, no longer had to be the very model, the living persona of Vorish perfection. The very knowledge of it was amazing and terrifying at the same time. 

“You see,” Simon said quietly. “The only one holding you back...”

“Just because there are others now to assume my responsibilities is no excuse to abandon protocol,” Alys said severely. Fear. It was fear - she hung from a tightrope over a steep drop, and she didn’t dare to let go. Those unwritten rules defined her life, defined _her_ \- what would she be without them?

“I only ask that you let go of the standards that others have thrust upon you,” Simon answered. “Let go of the fear that there is always someone judging you, and waiting for you to fall. What is protocol - except what we make of it?” He reached forward, grasped her hands. “Do you trust me?”

“Simon--” she said, “--This is different. What do I have to gain, doing something that I don’t want to do, even if it’s because of standards that others have thrust upon me? I set some of those standards, myself.” Unconsciously. Unwittingly. But she could not deny - and neither could Simon - that this was her own downfall.

“What do you have to gain? Your life again,” Simon said simply, and pulled her backwards with him.

 

A moment of breathless freefall.

 

A massive splash as they tumbled into the pool.

 

It was - a stupid, reckless, _life-threatening_ thing to do, Alys thought, even as they hit the water and crashed into the depths, and she was going to _kill him_ when she got up for air, _assuming she didn’t drown first_ \--

\--she thrashed as they went down, air escaping and her long skirts tangling up around her legs. She couldn’t swim, she was going to drown--

\--Simon’s arms were wrapped around her torso, supporting her. She grabbed at his shoulders, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but she couldn’t bring herself to let go. His arms tightened fractionally around her, an unspoken _trust me_ , and she had to force herself to swallow back the fear. A swirl of water as he lunged upwards. A moment later, they broke the surface, and when Alys tried to stand, she found that the water was only up to her shoulders. 

“Simon--” she said, the vestiges of shock morphing into fury and into a horrible urge to scream, to beat at him, one that she didn’t act on only because she was shaking so hard. Water in her mouth. Water in her eyes. Her dress probably ruined. It took her a moment to hear the words that he was whispering into her ears, over and over again - _I have you,_ he was saying. _It’s alright._

“It’s not alright,” she shot back, “What were you thinking, doing that? We could both have drowned!”

“But we didn’t,” Simon pointed out. And with absolute conviction: “I wouldn’t have let us.”

_I have you,_ he’d said, and Alys wondered when it was that she’d stopped trusting, when she’d started doing everything herself, relying on her own strength -- no, she knew exactly when. She still saw the scene of Padma running into the path of that nerve disruptor in her nightmares. 

But she hadn’t been alone then, had she, just as she was not alone now. 

“You were never in danger,” Simon said, sincerely, and she read the truth of it in his eyes. 

It didn’t change the fact that he’d just dragged her into the pool, against the grain of all protocol and all standards. Standards that others imposed on her. Standards that she imposed on herself. The regimented, perfect, _artificial_ world she’d built around herself like a barrier. Shattered in a single moment, as the two of them crashed through the perfect stillness of the water’s surface.

But here they were, and Simon still had her, and Barrayaran society hadn’t collapsed around their ears. She felt curiously weightless, as though the spectre of Lady Alys Vorpatril had been stripped away from her as they fell, leaving behind only Alys. Nothing more. Nothing less. For the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt _free_ \- released from all responsibility and expectation, lightheaded and giddy and almost convinced that if she spread her arms, she could fly. Simon's gaze was searching, concerned and worried that his gamble hadn't paid off, a little frown starting to knit his brow... and with her heart racing and adrenaline pounding in her veins, she did the only thing that felt right in the circumstances. She kissed him.

Simon kissed her back, vigorous and fervent and passionate, and Alys thought of all the other unwritten rules she’d broken, all the lines she’d crossed, the day she’d dropped everything and went charging to ImpSec headquarters when she heard about his ... condition. She hadn’t stopped to think. It had been a stupid, foolhardy thing to do, and it had set tongues wagging all over Vorbarr Sultana - nothing was sacred there, nothing was a secret; the gossipmongers had latched onto that event and had her sleeping with Simon long before that memorable night at Vorkosigan House. 

She hadn’t cared, and she’d gained something she’d never dreamt she’d ever get again. And who knew what else she’d gain? 

_Your life again,_ Simon had said. She was starting to see what he meant. 

“You planned this,” she said, accusingly, when they parted.

“Milady,” Simon said, “I believe you were the one who kissed me first.”

“Not that. This,” Alys said, with an encompassing sweep of her arm at the pool.

“But look at the sunset,” Simon pointed out. “Isn’t it gorgeous? Isn’t it better than watching it from the edge of the pool?”

“My dress is ruined, and I’d thank you for thinking about that in future before you drag me into the pool. I don’t believe your vice admiral’s half pay would even begin to cover it,” she said, archly. It wasn’t true and Simon probably knew it - had probably waited for her to wear something less expensive before pulling his little stunt, but she smiled to take the sting out of her words anyway, and leaned against his shoulder. “But the sunset is gorgeous. And the water is lovely.”

Simon just smiled in response and pulled her closer. They stood in silence, each bearing the other up, as the setting sun turned the waters to gold around them.

**

  
_“Or else a love with intuition; someone who reaches out to my weakness, and won’t let go.” -- The Tower, Vienna Teng_   



End file.
